Jaffa Cakes
by TheClassicalGeek
Summary: The scene in the park told from Mrs. Alexander's POV. 9th grade honors English Summer Reading Project. I own nothing.


**A/N: I do not own anything. I own nothing here. Now that that has been said, this is part of a summer reading assignment, that was EXTREMELY LOOONG! But I'm sure you don't care about that. This is the scene in the park told from Mrs. Alexander's POV. Hope you enjoy! -Fic**

Jaffa Cakes

The sun shown bright and hot in the sky, causing me to become rather warm on my way down to the small shop at the end of the road. It had been a long morning, spent baking various pastries for my bookclub meeting the following day, and I had only just remembered about the pint of milk I needed and the packet of Jaffa cakes I had promised everyone.

"Come along, Ivor." I say, giving the dachshund's lead a small tug. Ivor gives up on sniffing the plant that only a moment ago he found to be most interesting, and trots happily by my side. Unfortunately, it's not very long, perhaps fifteen seconds if not less, before Ivor finds another interesting plant to sniff, and I have to tug him away from it yet again.

Ivor is a most curious pup, rather stubborn, too. The only human being he ever really fully listened to was Kenton, and after his passing Ivor seemed to become more stubborn than ever before. Ivor had always been Kent's dog. Since the day we got him, a surprisingly warm October afternoon seven years ago, Ivor had always just listened to Kent, meanwhile I struggled, and still continue to struggle, to get him to do anything.

Giving Ivor's lead a final tug to get him moving, I begin walking in the direction of the little shop again, letting my mind wander back to when Kenton and I first met, a time that feels like so very long ago.

It was a Thursday in September, fifty-five years ago. My sister Linda had talked me into meeting her at a locale shop for tea, and showed up fifteen minutes late. During those fifteen minutes, the shop had managed to crowd up rather quickly, and by the time a man by the name of Kenton Alexander had walked in, there were only two seats left, and they were at my table. He approached, a notebook and pen in hand, and asked if anyone was using the seats. I told him that I was saving one for my sister, who appeared to be running late - but that the second seat was open.

So, he took a seat, and we ended up talking the entire time in between his arrival and my sister's, who was rather surprised to find that it was going to be more than just the two of us having tea. The entire time I had noticed Kent staring at me, then scribbling something down in his notebook. After about half an hour of this, I was finally curious enough to ask him what he was doing, and when I did, he showed me. And what he showed me was truly amazing. It was a picture of me, drawn in perfect detail, all the way down to the one strand of hair that just refused to lie flat that day.

When tea time was over, we exchanged numbers, and promised that we'd see each other again, and we did. Two years after that day, he proposed, and I accepted. A year after that, I went from being Miss Auburn Anderson, to being Auburn Alexander, Mrs. Kenton Alexander, and I couldn't have been happier, at least until my older brother showed up, conveniently enough exactly one year later on our anniversary, angry beyond belief.

For the longest time after that night, Thomas just couldn't accept that I had married Kent. He didn't until after Linda had died in an accident, and I became his only little sister. Something in him changed then, but it was a change for the better.

And looking back on it all now, fifty-five years after I met Kent, fifty-two years after we married, forty-seven years after my little sister died, and my older brother changed, forty-six years after Kent and I decided we wanted children, forty-five years after our son, John, was born, seventeen years after our grandson, Steven, was born, seven years after we got Ivor, five years after Kenton died, I don't regret a single thing.

A smile forms on my face as I reach the little shop's door. Bending down, I tie the end of Ivor's lead to the drainpipe with the parting words of, "Be good, Ivor. I'll be back out in a moment." before straightening up and heading into the little shop.

Once inside, I notice the young lad from the other day is also in the shop, and that he notices me, too.

"What happened to you the other day?" I ask, curious as to why he mysteriously vanished after I had gone inside.

"Which day?" he asks quietly, soft enough that I don't hear him.

"I'd come out again and you'd gone." I say. Recalling the many biscuits I brought out, I add, "I had to eat all the biscuits myself."

"I went away." he says simply.

"I gathered that." I say with a small smile.

"I thought you might ring the police." he says, his voice soft again, but not nearly as quiet as before.

"Why on earth would I do that?" I ask, surprised and a little hurt by his answer.

"Because I was poking my nose into other people's business and Father said I shouldn't investigate who killed Wellington. And a policeman gave me a caution and if I get into trouble again it will be a lot worse because of the caution." he says in one breath, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Before I can even think of an answer for Christopher's comment though, the young Indian woman behind the counter asks, "Can I help you?"

"Oh, yes." I say, recalling why I came in here in the first place. "I'd like a pint of milk and a packet of Jaffa cakes, please."

As the woman goes to collect the requested items, I turn back to where Christopher was only to find that he had disappeared when my back was turned, yet again. The woman returns and hands me a small bag and I in-turn hand over the correct amount of payment before making my way out of the little shop.

"His name is Ivor." I say, spotting Christopher squatted down in front of said dog, stroking him.

"You're very shy, aren't you, Christopher." I say, noticing his habit of not answering.

"I'm not allowed to talk to you." he says.

"Don't worry." I say, waving my hand in a dismissive manor. "I'm not going to tell the police and I'm not going to tell your father, because there's nothing wrong with having a chat. Having a chat is just being friendly, isn't it."

"I can't do chatting." he says simply.

"Do you like computers?" I ask in an attempt to get the conversation going.

"Yes. I like computers." he says, adding almost as an after thought, "I have a computer at home in my bedroom."

"I know." I say, bending over to untie Ivor's lead. "I can see you sitting at your compter in your bedroom sometimes when I look across the street."

He's silent for a moment, eyes fixed on some point in the distance, appearing to be lost in thought. I'm about to say something to recapture his attention when he suddenly snaps out of it and says, "And I like maths and looking after Toby. And also I like outer space and I like being on my own."

"I bet your very good at maths, aren't you." I say, having heard about the Reverend administering Christopher a math test of some sort soon.

"I am." he says confidently, just as a ringing in my ears begins, drowning out half of what he says next. "I'm going to do my A-level maths next month. And I'm going to get an A grade."

"Really?" I say as the ringing fades away. In an attempt to confirm what I think I heard I ask, "A-level maths?"

"Yes." he says quickly. "I don't tell lies."

"I apologize." I say sincerely, not wanting him to feel insulted. "I didn't mean to suggest that you were lying. I just wondered if I heard you correctly. I'm a little deaf sometimes."

"I remember. You told me." he replies, being quick to add, "I'm the first person to do an A-level from my school because it's a special school."

"Well, I am very impressed." I say honestly. "And I hope you do get an A."

"I will." he says, the confident tone in his voice returning, whether he knows it or not.

There's another brief moment of silence before I say, "And the other thing I know about you is that your favorite color is not yellow."

"No. And it's not brown either." he says. "My favorite color is red. A metal color."

Ivor lets out a small yip and I a small sigh, pulling one of the little plastic baggies out of my pocket and leaning down to pick up Ivor's latest challenge with the digestive system, happy I at least remembered to bring the poo bags.

"Do you know Mr. Shears?" Christopher asks after I've straightened up.

"Not really, no." I reply after a moment of thought. "I mean, I knew him well enough to say hello and talk to a little in the street, but I didn't know much about him. I think he worked in a bank. The National Westminister. In town."

"Father says that he is an evil man." he says quietly, catching me slightly off guard. "Do you know why he said that? Is Mr. Shears an evil man?"

"Why are you asking me about Mr. Shears, Christopher?" I ask, wondering just what he's going for with all these questions. But, unsurprisingly, he doesn't answer my question, instead he just stands there, staring at his feet looking slightly guilty.

"Is this about Wellington?" I ask, remembering the reason he had for paying me a visit the other day.

All the answer he gives is a small nod, but that in itself tells me he's afraid of getting into trouble. Turning, I walk the few feet over to the small disposables box on a nearby pole and deposit Ivor's poo into it. Walking back over to Christopher, I take a sharp inhalation of breath, before finally saying, "Perhaps it would be best not to talk about these things, Christopher."

"Why not?" he asks, innocently.

"Because." I start, stopping once I realize I have no idea how to say what I want to without upsetting Christopher, as the topic might still not be an easy one, may never be an easy one, for him to discuss.

"Because maybe your father is right and you shouldn't go around asking questions about this." I say slowly, carefully, hoping he gets the message. He doesn't.

"Why?" he asks, and I wonder briefly why he can't just drop it. . .

"Because he's obviously going to find it quite upsetting." I say calmly.

"Why is going to find it upsetting?" he asks, and I start to get a funny feeling about this conversation. He must know. There's no way he couldn't by now.

I take in a deep breath, and pray that hopefully this time he'll pick up on what I'm trying to say.

"Because. . . because I think you know why your father doesn't like Mr. Shears very much." I say quickly but carefully.

"Did Mr. Shears kill Mother?" he asks quizzically.

"Kill her?" I ask startled, wondering where on earth he got an idea like that.

"Yes. Did he kill Mother?" he asks again

"No. No." I say hurriedly. "Of course he didn't kill your mother."

"But did he give her stress so that she died of a heart attack?" he asks, staring at me intently as if I should somehow know the answers to all of these questions.

"I honestly don't know what you're talking about, Christopher." I say, and I mean it.

"Or did he hurt her so that she had to go into hospital?" he asks. Hospital?

"Did she have to go into hospital?" I ask, feeling like both of us are missing a rather big part of the story.

"Yes." he says. "And it wasn't very serious at first, but she had a heart attack when she was in hospital."

"Oh my goodness." I whisper.

"And she died." he says simply.

"Oh my goodness." I say again, already beginning to feel terrible about asking. "Oh, Christopher, I am so, so sorry. I never realized."

"Why did you say 'I think you know why your father doesn't like Mr. Shears very much'?" he asks, staring at me once again.

And it's then that I realize that he doesn't know, and that if I don't tell him, he'll undoubtedly go and find someone else to ask.

"Oh dear, dear, dear." is all I manage to get out though.

And he asks me again, but I don't answer. He doesn't know. I can't tell him, I shouldn't tell him, and yet know I have to. He needs to know. He needs to, and it looks like I'm going to be the one to tell him.

"So you don't know?" I whisper. I meant the question to be rhetorical, but Christopher doesn't know that, either.

"Don't know what?" he asks, and I begin to feel terrible again.

"Christopher, look, I probably shouldn't be telling you this." I start, then realize that we're still standing rather near the front of the little shop, and that we don't need an audience.

"Perhaps we should take a little walk in the park together." I suggest. "This is not the place to be talking about this kind of thing."

Christopher gives a small nod of approval and I lead us into the park until I'm sure that we're out of earshot of anyone who may be entering or exiting the little shop. Coming to a stop, I turn to face Christopher, and sternly say, "I am going to say something to you and you must promise not to tell your father that I told you."

"Why?" he asks, seeming the slightest bit suspicious.

"i shouldn't have said what I said." I say slowly, choosing my words carefully. "And if I don't explain, you'll carry on wondering what I meant. And you might ask your father. And I don't want you to do that because I don't want you to upset him. So I'm going to explain why I said what I said. But before I do that you have to promise not to tell anyone I said this to you."

"Why?" he asks again. So many questions, with no easy answers.

"Christopher, please, just trust me." I say, a hint of pleading tinting my voice.

"I promise." he says at last, and I let out a small, silent breath that I had unintentionally been holding.

"Your mother, before she died," I pause, not entirely sure how I should continue, or if I even _should_ continue. "was very good friends with Mr. Shears."

"I know." he says, oblivious to what I'm about to tell him.

"No, Christopher. I'm not sure that you do." I say hesitantly. "I mean that they were very good friends. very, very good friends." I say, emphasizing the _very_ as much as possible.

Christopher says nothing, the silence seemingly lasting forever. And the entire time, I'm fearing that I made a mistake. That I shouldn't have told him. That I should have just let the subject drop and see if maybe, just maybe he'd do the same thing. . .

"Do you mean that they were doing sex?" he asks suddenly, effectively crashing my train of thought.

"Yes, Christopher." I say sadly. "That is what I mean."

"I'm sorry, Christopher." I say after a while. "I really didn't mean to say anything that was going to hurt you. But I wanted to explain. Why I said what I said. You see, I thought you knew. That's why your father thinks Mr. Shears is an evil man. And that will be why he doesn't want you going around talking to people about Mr. Shears. Because that will bring back bad memories."

"Was that why Mr. Shears left Mrs. Shears, because he was doing sex with someone else when he was married to Mrs. Shears?" he asks.

"Yes, I expect so." I answer with a small sigh. "I'm sorry, Christopher. I really am."

"I think I should go now." he says, turning to leave.

"Are you OK, Christopher?" I ask, genuinely concerned.

"I'm scared of being in the park with you because you're a stranger." he says, beginning to walk away.

"I'm not a stranger, Christopher, I'm a friend." I say, and wish that he would actually believe that.

"I'm going home now." he says. picking up his pace slightly.

"If you want to talk about this you can come and see me anytime you want. You only have to knock on my door." I say, trying to sound reassuring.

"OK." he calls over his shoulder.

"Christopher?" I call after him, wanting to triple check on one thing.

"What?" he asks, this time stopping and turning around to face me.

"You won't tell your father about this conversation, will you?" I ask, thankful when he replies with,

"No. I promised."

"You go on home. And remember what I said. Anytime." I say. He gives me half a nod before turning back around and leaving the park.

I watch him go sadly, hoping that what I had to tell him didn't hurt him too much.

Ivor lets out a little yip then, and I'm suddenly reminded of all the preparations I still need to get done before the book club meeting.

"Well, come along then, Ivor." I say, giving his lead a small tug to get him going. "We've got a lot of work to do before the girls get here, don't we?"

And with that, Ivor and I leave the park.


End file.
